


In Sickness and In Health

by JenniferNapier



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Childbirth, Dating, Developing Relationship, Divorce, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Flashbacks, Hallucinations, Lost Love, Love, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Married Life, Meet-Cute, Memories, Origin Story, Parent-Child Relationship, Past, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Canon, Unhealthy Relationships, kind of?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23175409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferNapier/pseuds/JenniferNapier
Summary: When Jessica Whitly is interviewed about her past, she is forced to reflect on the relationship she had --and lost-- with her ex-husband.
Relationships: Ainsley Whitly & Jessica Whitly, Ainsley Whitly & Martin Whitly, Jessica Whitly & Martin Whitly, Jessica Whitly/Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Comments: 9
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here goes another Prodigal Son fic!
> 
> The glimpses that the show gave us into Jessica and Martin's past really hit home for me. Both my mother and myself have fallen in love with --and been married to-- people who turned out not to be who we thought they were, who were manipulative yet charming, and who we strongly bonded to nonetheless. They say that love is blind, and I know that to be true. I found so many things that I could relate to hidden deep beneath Jessica's character and I just couldn't stop writing drabbles about what the relationship between Jessica and Martin might have been like, so I decided to string them together into a fic. There is a dynamic and bond that forms between two people who love each other, and I wanted to explore what that might look like and what kind of love might have occurred between these two characters.
> 
> While the story is mostly about Jessica, and told from Jessica's perspective, it also has bits of Martin's perspective woven through it as well, because every story has two sides, even if one side is more obscure or darker than the other. 
> 
> It's a very sad fic that I hope will resonate with anyone who has been through a tough, tragic love story. But in the end, it's about overcoming the damage, healing from a broken heart, learning to forgive oneself, and learning to move on and become strong again.
> 
> P.S. I finally made a Prodigal Son tumblr blog. If you'd like to check it out, it's at https://theresnosuchthingasmonsters.tumblr.com/

A pair of leopard print heels clacked across the hexagon slabs of a stone pathway. The woman wearing the heels carried nothing more than a turquoise handbag that was just large enough to store her makeup and her latest addiction; a nonfiction novel titled _‘Satisfied with being Single.’_ Stuyvesant Square Park was her go-to reading spot, for it often supplied more peace and quiet than Gramercy or Union-- at least during this time of the day. 

Each park was just an afternoon stroll away from her beautiful townhouse, but that day, she’d chosen to grace Stuyvesant with her presence. She’d visited the park for years --ever since she was a child-- and felt entirely comfortable in it. It was practically her backyard. A community backyard. Her friends walked their dogs and jogged along this route. She’d never felt fearful of her home neighborhood. As always, the park was full of its most frequent inhabitants, with merely a handful of newcomers.

One such newcomer was sitting on her favorite bench. It was the bench that offered just the right ratio of sunlight and shade at this particular hour. The woman didn’t consider choosing another one. The irresistible force of human habit bound her to that specific bench, and the stranger occupying one end of it didn’t appear anywhere near as questionable as most strangers in Manhattan did.

In fact, he appeared like an entirely ordinary man.

The man was around her same age, or perhaps a few years older. Two giant books lay open on either side of him. He pressed a pen down on a notepad over his leg, beside which a third book was sprawled. A pair of headphones were nestled in his hair, the cord trailing down to a Walkman beside him, where a cassette tape rolled. 

At first glance, his denim Levi’s appeared to fit him rather nicely, but after noticing how much of his socks were exposed, the woman identified that the jeans were a little too short. He wore white sneakers that were probably three years old, but not terribly worn or hideous. Yet. They were getting there. His shirt was a three-button red polo with a white collar and blue and white stripes across the chest, which might have looked nice on him if not for the bomber jacket he wore over it. The mud-colored jacket clearly came straight from a thrift store.

In a strange way, he almost looked like a boy. An overgrown boy, with only a healthy dark beard to show for his maturity. Even that was slightly overgrown around the edges. If they had known each other better, she would have recommended that he purchase a shaving razor before his facial hair sprouted completely out of control.

With mild annoyance, she noticed that his belongings took up a fair amount of space around him. It was easy to assume that strangers were inconsiderate and selfish creatures, but she tried not to judge him too quickly. Fortunately, as she took a seat upon the opposite end of the park bench, he grabbed a corner of one of his books and slid it closer to himself to give her more room. At least he had enough decency to think about accommodating for her personal space.

He glanced at her, then her book, and perhaps smirked faintly at what it said about her. Then he replaced his focus on his own reading material. She found the page in her novel where she’d previously left off, but eyed him from her peripherals, discerning that he was surrounded by an array of textbooks. In the midst of her subtle spying, she also saw that the man was holding an apple.

Except, it _wasn’t_ an apple. The woman performed a double take, then stared at the object in the man’s hand. “Good _God.”_ She pulled her Chanel sunglasses down her nose, revealing her horrified expression.

The man again glanced over at her, entirely clueless as to what the problem was. He removed his headset, allowing the muffled music of Bruce Springsteen to crackle quietly through the open air.

“Is that a _heart?”_ she gasped, pulling her sunglasses off her face completely.

He looked back at the object in his hand and answered plainly, “It is.”

She was in shock.

“Not a real one, of course,” he chuckled, humored by her overreaction.

Her alarm dispersed at the sight of his brilliant smile, which somehow managed to pull her attention away from the heart.

He turned over the organ in his hand. The short tubes extending from nearly every side of it jostled like Jell-O with the movement. “It’s a synthetic model.”

She blinked at the thing, still taken aback. “It _looks_ real.”

Between staring at the rubber heart, she glanced at the man’s features. He had a distinct nose and kind eyes. Handsome. Friendly. Captivating. Not a supermodel, certainly. Not necessarily attractive enough to earn a second glance when one passed him in a crowd --but more the type of handsome that increasingly made itself apparent the longer one looked at him.

“Actually, it doesn’t,” he chuckled again. “A _real_ heart--” he was about to inform her of the difference, then thought better of it. “Ah… Never mind.”

The woman stared at him.

After an awkward pause, he kindly offered, “Would you like to hold it?”

She gave the heart a disgusted look, shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and drew her eyes back to her book with a disbelieving shake of her head. _“No_ thank you.” 

Another moment of awkward silence dominated the air between them. It was populated only by the rock music that quietly murmured from his discarded headset.

The man attempted an explanation. “I’m a doctor.”

She raised her eyebrows, but continued skimming the page of her novel. “I should _hope_ so.”

Perhaps what she _really_ should have done, was be kinder to him. _She_ had been the one to interrupt his studying, after all. The woman rested her book on her leg and sighed. Looking at him again, she attempted to repair the conversation and correct her needlessly sour attitude. “Where do you...?”

His smile told her that he forgave her.

“St. Edwards,” he pointed in the direction. “I’m a resident there.”

The poor went to that hospital. The drug addicts, those without insurance, those who assuredly needed the medical help more than anyone else in the city. It was practically a charity hospital. For the first time in quite a while, some kind of humanity crossed the woman’s face, and she almost smiled. “Oh, I know St. Edwards. My family’s a _huge_ sponsor.”

The man quirked a curious expression, then murmured, “You’re kidding.”

She smiled proudly, but also like she kept a devious secret. “Have you heard of the Miltons?”

His mouth gaped in mild shock. “Well, who hasn’t?” He turned his body to face her, scoffing in merry disbelief, “They’re practically _royalty.”_

The woman smirked at the trees across the walkway in front of them. “Yes, well, you’re speaking with their sole heir. So to speak,” she grinned, tossing her fluffy auburn curls.

The man looked at her. _Really_ looked at her. He looked at her metallic cube earrings that sandwiched her earlobes like blocks of gold. He looked at the pale blue shine of her blouse and the expensive black pants that she wore. He looked at her long double-layered pearl necklace and her giant glasses and her Gucci bag. More than anything else, he looked at her eyes-- looked past the mascara and eyeliner and colored eye shadow. He looked at _her._

And smiled.

“I’m honored.”

She smiled back, having grown so accustomed to being looked at --in all sorts of ways, by all sorts of people-- that she no longer was able to recognize the natures of the various looks. “How long have you been at St. Edwards?” she asked, preparing a mental portfolio of influential names to drop.

“Only a few years,” he answered, then explained, “After my residency, I’ll go through a fellowship somewhere else, and, _eventually,_ I will become a bona fide surgeon.” His smile brightened, looking very excited for that day.

His expression wavered, but his overall demeanor remained positive. “And then I can begin paying off my… _colossal_ student debt.” The man nearly sighed, but instead reinforced his smile. “It’s a very long and tedious process.”

She empathized with a groan. “Ugh, you must be fed up with all of that schooling.”

“Oh, I am,” he admitted with a small laugh. “But….” He shrugged. “It keeps me busy. And the work is….” He narrowed his eyes and smiled like he kept a devious secret. _“Interesting.”_ He held up the fake organ that was in his grasp and shrugged. “I mean, what other profession gives out _latex hearts_ to study?”

She smiled politely, but did not laugh. Shaking her head, she opened her book again. “None that I can think of.”

He continued to carry on his conversation with her, though he warily glanced at the novel that threatened to steal her attention away from him. He spoke very carefully, as if he only had one chance to say the right thing and establish a stronger connection with her before she’d condemn herself to being a total stranger forever. “And what, uh... better way to spend one’s life… than saving the lives of others?”

Her ruby lips smiled and she coyly eyed his eager gaze, appreciating his valiant effort to retain her interest. “A noble profession indeed,” she purred playfully with a lift of one shoulder.

The man grinned at his success, then inquired, “What about you?” He closed the textbook in his lap slowly, like he feared that closing it too quickly would spook her away from him. “What do you do, as the... _royal heiress_ of the Milton bloodline?” he teased.

She scoffed, “Oh, nothing.” The woman ran a painted nail under her puffy bangs, then shook her head again, “Well, nothing that requires eight _years_ of rigorous education. I simply organize charity events... host elaborate dinners, and… do whatever I can to keep all of my wealthy friends happy and entertained!” she declared arrogantly, unafraid to flaunt her lavish lifestyle.

He returned an empathetic look. “That sounds _just_ as rigorous.”

The woman laughed.

It was a laugh powerful enough to make her glow, and she lifted a hand to cover her mouth. She regained control over herself in no time and sighed, “Ohhh, yes.” There were joyful sparkles in her eyes. “But nowhere _near_ as noble,” she complimented teasingly.

His eyes mirrored the happiness in hers.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself,” he realized abruptly, setting his books aside before offering his heartless hand. “I’m Martin.”

“Jessica,” she grinned, extending her hand to accept his.

Martin’s hand was perfectly warm, and Jessica was almost struck by how much his hold felt like _home._ She couldn’t explain it, but she was actually somewhat sad when he let her hand go.

“Jessica,” he repeated, listening to the sound of it. “What a _lovely_ name.”

It _was_ a lovely name. Especially when he said it.

* * *

Jessica Whitly settled herself on a viridian bergère in the parlor and crossed her legs before smoothing out any wrinkles in her dark pants. Her manicured nails fiddled with the lavalier mic on the collar of her opal blouse and she tossed her glossy hair over one shoulder. An LED light fixture blinked to life in front of her, and her fake eyelashes blinked in response.

“Ugh. Torture device,” the woman muttered through a cringe.

“It’s not a _torture device._ It’s a _key light,_ and it’s very important for an interview,” her daughter smiled from behind the fixture, then adjusted the focus of her camera. “I know you hate the paparazzi and this is probably giving you PTSD, but it’s just _me.”_ The young blonde plopped down onto the dining chair she’d placed to face her subject. “I’m not that scary, I promise.”

“Does it wash out my face?” Jessica fretted, wishing she had a compact mirror handy. “Do I need more makeup?”

“You look beautiful, mama,” Ainsley grinned. “As always.”

Jessica’s alarm dispersed with the brilliance of her daughter’s smile.

“Just pretend like you’re talking to me for real. Without all this,” Ainsley gestured at the tripod and the lights. She prepared a small notepad in her lap, glancing over her notes from class.

“Now, it’s standard to give the subject a heads-up about what they’re gonna be asked, so that they’re in the right mindset and have time to think about their answers,” she explained, reciting what she’d learned from school. “At least, that’s the polite thing to do. Sometimes journalists _don’t_ do that, or they divert from their questions --if their intention is to catch their subject off guard and get a raw reaction from them.”

Her mother gave her a wary look.

“But I’m not going to do that,” Ainsley assured her quickly.

“Thank goodness,” Jessica sighed, refraining from rolling her eyes. “When you become a real reporter one day, sweetie, promise me that you’ll report on _good_ things, not terrible ones. We don’t need to attach our family name to even _more_ devastation.”

Ainsley hesitated to inform her mother, “Well... murder _is_ the number one thing that attracts viewers....”

Jessica released an exasperated breath.

“And sex,” the blonde added with a half shrug and a smirk.

“I’d rather you report on sex,” Jessica decided. “Lots and lots of sex, and very little murder.”

Ainsley laughed. Her cheeks swelled and her eyes crinkled at the corners.

Jessica watched her daughter’s face light up with a sad smile. The girl looked so much like her father when she was happy. “What questions are you going to ask me, dear?”

Ainsley’s smile sobered, and she glanced down at her notebook. “Oh, just... basic things.” She hesitated before sloppily reading through her bulleted list. “Um… about you and dad. How did you two meet, what dating was like, the wedding. Marriage. Kids. Blah, blah, blah, that sort of stuff.”

“Oh.” Her mother blinked, then nodded distantly, processing.

“Is... that alright?” the young reporter-to-be asked timidly. The last thing she wanted was to make her mother uncomfortable or cause any bad memories to resurface. But the second-to-last thing Ainsley wanted was to lose the chance to get some answers.

“We can talk about… something else, if you’d rather,” she offered, looking down at her small list of giant questions. “I just figured that this was something you knew really well. They call it a primary source. And….”

She lifted her eyes to her mother’s shocked face. “I’ve always wondered about some of these things, myself.” The young woman really didn’t want to go through her whole life and _not know_ the story of how her parents met and fell in love. “I won’t share this with anyone, I promise. This is just practice.”

Jessica blinked again, shook her head, and waved away her daughter’s concern. “It’s alright, sweetheart.” They were simple questions, and they were nothing that she hadn’t answered before --to a wide variety of inquiring vultures. But her daughter was different. Her daughter was not interested in digging up dirty secrets or exploiting her past. She was only curious, and she had a right to know some of the story.

“But,” Jessica held up a finger. “Disclaimer, I won’t have all that _great_ of things to say about your father.”

“Oh, of course not.” Ainsley shook her head and smiled in relief, pardoning, “I don’t expect you to.” She reached up to press the record button on her camera. “Alright.” She was clearly trying very hard to hide her excitement, and act professional. “Don't worry about looking into the lens. Just look at me,” the young lady instructed pleasantly. “It's supposed to be like a conversation.”

Jessica nodded, having been interviewed plenty of times before. But she admired her daughter’s enthusiasm. This was her first interview, after all.

Ainsley cleared her throat and adjusted her grip on the little notepad she held in her lap. Then, she began. “Hello, Miss Whitly. I am... _Ainsley_ Whitly of….” she tossed a hand up and picked, “New York One.” As if she’d ever score a job for a news channel like that.

They shared a silent giggle before Ainsley moved on. “And... I wanted to ask you a few questions about... you and your ex-husband.” She spoke carefully, as if she only had one chance at this, and had to do it right, or else she’d be forever condemned to not knowing.

“First question,” the blonde beamed. “How did you two meet?”

Jessica gave a long sigh as if buckling up for one hell of a road trip down memory lane. “It was at a park.” The park she didn’t go to anymore. “I was… reading a book, and he… struck up a conversation,” she shrugged, smiling falsely.

“What was the book?” Ainsley asked.

“Oh, I don’t remember. Some self-help book.” Jessica’s gaze wandered over to the entryway of her dining room, where some alcohol was stashed. She had a feeling that she would ask Louisa to fetch some for her before the hour was finished.

“What did he say to you?”

Perhaps she’d call for Louisa sooner than that. “Well, he….. asked my name. Said I looked nice. All the usual things.” She rolled her eyes. “Everything you’d expect some cardboard cutout _hunk_ to say in a cheesy chick flick.”

“Do you remember any specifics?” Ainsley prompted gently. “Anything that… stood out to you?”

“Not really,” Jessica lied. Shamefully, she realized her daughter deserved more than avoidances and generalizations. “He mentioned school, and I mentioned my charity work. It turned out, we had a few mutual acquaintances. We started talking, and...” she shrugged, her voice trailing off. “Things just snowballed from there.”

“What was he like?” Ainsley asked with a curious half smile.

“He was….” Jessica took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and shook her head. “Completely normal.” Slowly, she allowed her thoughts to creep back into the past. “I had _no idea_ that anything was wrong with him.”

Ainsley needed more. “What else was he like?”

“He... was a good student.” Jessica fiddled with her hands in her lap, feeling the smooth texture of her nails, squeezing each finger, rubbing each joint. “Smart. Funny. Attractive.”

She remained composed and in control of herself. But when she looked up at her beloved daughter, Jessica allowed a resentment and a numbed pain to show through her bitter smirk. “That bastard stole my heart the second he smiled at me.”

* * *

“It goes here. In the thoracic cavity, between the lungs.” Martin held the object against his chest, using himself as a physical diagram. “About one and a half centimeters to the left of the midsagittal plane.”

Jessica smirked as she watched him. He handled the organ as if it were a puzzle piece that could easily plug into an empty slot --a cog in a system of clockwork. The circulatory system. She listened to him with a layer of indifference, expecting to become lost with all the medical terminology and soon thereafter, become bored. But neither of those things happened.

“Basically, the _lungs_ provide oxygen to your blood, and the _heart_ acts as the gatekeeper and driving force of that blood. The left side of the heart receives the oxygenated blood from the lungs and sends it throughout your body, forming the systemic circuit. The right side of the heart receives your used-up, _de_ oxygenated blood and sends it _back_ to the lungs to _re-_ oxygenate, forming the pulmonary circuit.”

“The... right side, and the left side?” Jessica repeated. “There are _literally_ two halves to a person’s heart?”

Martin searched for an accurate answer. “Well, sort of. They aren’t _perfect_ halves. The left side is actually _larger,_ because, as I said, it pumps blood through your _whole_ body. From your head to your toes.” He brought a finger up to his head, then down to his stomach. “While the right side only supplies deoxygenated blood to each of the lungs,” he gestured to each side of his chest, almost appearing as if he were crossing himself in a blessing. “So, it’s a bit smaller.”

Perhaps that was more of a detailed explanation than she needed. “But, yes. The heart is literally split into two parts,” he yielded with a gentle nod.

Jessica mused about the poeticism of that fact, finding it both sweet and sad.

“The heart has two lower chambers, called ventricles, and two upper chambers, called atria.” Using his finger, the doctor traced the outline of each chamber over the heart, then pointed to some of the rubbery tubes sticking out of it. “Draining into the left atria, there are four pulmonary veins, which carry blood into the heart from the lungs.”

He looked up at her, and her gaze locked onto his. “As I’m sure you already know, that’s what veins do. Carry blood _towards_ the heart. While _arteries_ carry blood _away_ from the heart.”

His smile was intoxicating. It was a good thing he gave it to her in small doses. 

Jessica patiently nodded, indeed already knowing the difference. But she admired the man’s enthusiasm, and she liked the way he led her through the introductory lesson.

“Each side of the heart has two valves. On the left side, you have the aortic valve and the mitral valve.”

He was a remarkable teacher. He spoke at just the right pace, and with just the right balance of wonder and expertise. He spoke succinctly, plainly, warmly, and he used his hands to create and show her visual references.

“This large vessel is called the aorta.”

“The ay-orta?” she repeated, testing out the new word.

“Yes. It is the artery that delivers oxygenated blood out to the rest of you.” The doctor dragged a finger gently across the latex tube as he explained, “It curves up, branches off to the left and right, and continues down to your abdomen, running along your spine.”

Jessica cringed lightly as she watched him trace the invisible lines throughout his torso. He was incredibly skilled at painting a vivid picture of a person’s insides. She was quickly learning much more than she ever wanted to know about the subject, but she had to admit that it was unexpectedly exciting. The woman was effectively engrossed in his gross tutorial.

“Moving over to the right side of the heart,” he adjusted the way he held the object against his chest so he could show her the other part of it. “This tube is the _vena cava._ Superior, and inferior. It drains deoxygenated blood from the body into the right atrium.”

She grinned, perplexed by how he straddled the border between a total geek and a sexy intellectual. A pair of round glasses would have tipped him over to one side, while a nice pair of slacks, a lab coat, and a tie would have shoved him over to the other.

 _“This_ vessel, which is also split into two branches, is called the _pulmonary artery,_ which means it carries deoxygenated blood….” he trailed off and looked up at her again, catching her by surprise.

Jessica realized that he was opening up the lesson for her to pitch in and test her knowledge. “Oh,” she laughed at herself, having been caught completely red-handed in a distracted daze. “Um….”

“Artery….” he aided her.

 _“Away_ from the heart,” she translated.

“Deoxygenated….” he helped her again.

She believed she caught on to where the piece fit into the system, and guessed, “To the... lungs? To be _'re_ -oxygenated?'”

He rewarded her with a bright smile. “Very good!”

The satisfaction she felt was embarrassing.

His gentle touch identified the location of the last pieces within the heart. “Here we have the pulmonary arterial valve and the tricuspid valve. Now, these valves are very important. The papillary muscles connected to each of them receive electrical signals telling them to tug and release. This closes the valves, and then allows them to open.”

“Wow. You sure know your stuff, doctor,” she scoffed, shaking her head. She felt it brimming full with new knowledge that she’d probably never again need to regurgitate.

Martin noticed that she was beginning to lose interest, and offered, “I’m sure you’ve heard of the term, ‘heartstrings?’”

Jessica curiously nodded.

“That’s where those are,” he smirked.

“They’re _real?”_ she gasped.

“They are,” he grinned proudly. “You might say that ‘tugging at one’s heartstrings,’ could be synonymous with making one’s heart beat.”

Jessica rolled her eyes, but smiled. Who would have known that she’d have a stranger flirting with her over _anatomy,_ of all things?

Martin added, pointing around the organ, “However, the _outer_ muscle of the heart, the _myocardium_ , does all the heavy lifting. It compresses the atria and ventricles in turn, creating a pressure system and forcing the blood through the body.” He closed his grip around the latex object, demonstrating the clench of the muscle.

The doctor concluded his lesson with a tilt of his head, a lift of his brows, and a surreptitious smile. “Annnnd _that_ is a very simple overview of how your heart works.”

She smirked and pointed a delicate finger at the heart. “So... those outer muscles squeeze the heart and create the ‘bu-bump, bu-bump’ of your heartbeat?”

He grinned at her child-like evaluation. “Precisely.”

The doctor performed another couple of clutches around the object, simulating its beating. Jessica couldn’t stop herself from laughing, but she waved her hand through the air in front of her. “Oh, God, stop it!” The action was unnerving and hilarious all at once. _“Lord,”_ she shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose, chuckling. He was such a dork. Why was she talking to this man?

He was very entertained by her squeamish reaction, but he did cease his joke.

She sighed, returned her gaze to him, twisted her ruby lips, and processed everything he’d just taught her. Then, reaching over with a manicured nail, she touched his heart.

Technically, that wasn't true. She didn’t dare touch the latex organ, and she certainly was nowhere near touching his _actual_ heart, but she did venture to hover her finger around it, over his chest. Jessica lightly traced the lines from his body to the object, following the flow of the circulatory system.

“The blood comes _from_ the… _veins..._ into the… atriums?”

 _“Atria,_ yes,” he grinned, glancing to her eyes between watching her finger move over his chest.

“Then through the….” she struggled, then gave up on recalling the individual names of each. “ _Valves.”_

They shared a silent giggle before Jessica moved on.

“To the… _ventricles,”_ she grinned, moving her pointed finger to the bottom of the heart before floating it up to point at the buttons of his collar. “Then out into the… _aorta,_ and…” She concluded her recital with a confident smirk. “ _Arteries.”_

Jessica had passed the pop quiz with a near-perfect score.

“You have a _fantastic_ memory,” Martin observed with a drawling pur, proud of her intelligence.

“So I’ve been told,” she bragged with a chuckle.

He held her gaze, and for a few seconds, they lingered in silence. This time, it wasn’t an awkward one. Finally, she broke their eye contact and glanced down to his false heart.

“Not so scary anymore, is it?” he murmured teasingly.

She decided that it was indeed no longer quite as alarming, now that she’d taken the time to get to know it and understand it.

“No, I suppose it’s not,” she hummed. Still, she found herself subtly grimacing the longer she stared at the organ. “It’s just... so….”

He eagerly attempted to finish her thought. “Fascinating?”

Her lip curled. “Grotesque.”

“No it’s not!” he laughed, mildly appalled. He appeared to hold the heart closer to himself, as if sheltering it from her judgmental glare. “It’s _beautiful,”_ he professed, playfully wounded. Then, he took the opportunity to point out, “Almost as beautiful as _you.”_

She scoffed and closed her eyes. “Ugh.” How utterly unromantic. His failed effort to compliment her was atrociously comical. “Shall I compare thee to a raw lump of _meat?”_ she mocked. It sounded like the beginning of a twisted Shakespearean verse --which Edgar Allen Poe had commandeered.

“I didn’t mean it like that!” he protested with another laugh. He then defended his heart, gesturing at it with a preaching, “This _‘grotesque,_ raw lump of _meat’_ powers _everything_ you do! It’s the engine of _life!_ ”

She shook her head and ignored his claim, instead changing the subject by pointing out something he’d forgotten in his anatomy lesson. “Where does the _love_ go?”

Confusion crossed his expression. “The... what?” he asked while trying to fix an uncertain smile.

“The _love,”_ she emphasized teasingly, as if it was part of an inside joke that he should have understood.

He computed the context of her question --which seemed as if it was one of the _stupidest_ questions he’d ever been asked, at least by a grown person. Finally, he gave an uneasy laugh. “That’s... not in your _heart,_ that’s… all in your _head.”_

Her expression faded.

“Chemical reactions,” he elaborated. “In the brain. That’s all love is.” His weary smile did not cheer her. As she glanced back toward the novel in her lap, he quickly added with a dash of enthusiasm, “Very _wonderful_ chemical reactions!”

It didn’t appear to work. She was packing her book in her bag. Martin struggled to come up with something to repair the conversation. “Um…”

“Can that be my next lesson?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow at him as she closed her purse.

“Y-you’d like to have another lesson?” A smile returned to his face as he dared to hope.

“I would,” she smirked, having enjoyed his brief panic.

“About the chemical reactions in the brain?”

“About _love.”_ She lifted her chin and challenged, “Tomorrow? Same time?”

He grinned, appearing very relieved and excited. “Well, I’m no _neurosurgeon_ \--or as you might call it, _love doctor,_ but… I’ll see what I can do.”

Jessica struggled to hide a humored smile as she stood up and adjusted the strap of her purse over her shoulder. "I look forward to it."  
  
He stared up at the woman, soaking in the glorious sight of her.  
  
"It was nice meeting you, Doctor...?"

"Whitly," he answered softly. "Doctor Whitly."

She twiddled her fingers in a wave as she walked away with a smile. "Until tomorrow, Doctor Whitly." Her leopard print heels clacked across the hexagon slabs of the stone pathway.

Martin watched her leave for as long as he was able to, then finally turned his attention down to the heart in his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

“The hypothalamus-pituitary-adrenal axis and the hypothalamus-pituitary-gonadal axis are two hormonal axes that work together to maintain an appropriate balance between withdrawing in the presence of fearful or threatening stimuli, and approaching in the presence of rewarding stimuli. According to Hare’s studies, psychopathy is a disorder associated with an apparent imbalance in these processes, as it is characterized by traits such as reduced fearfulness, insensitivity to punishment, reward-seeking, and aggression.”

“Did you _really_ write all that?” Dr. Whitly piped up with a suspicious grin. “Or did you copy and paste?”

Malcolm glanced up from his research paper and ceased his methodical pacing outside his father’s cell. He answered with a dismissive shrug and a careful, “This is just a draft.”

Dr. Whitly snickered from behind the bars of his cage.

Malcolm added with a tiny smirk of his own, “Besides, I credited him.”

Dr. Whitly held up his chained hands. “I’m not one to judge. Just don’t get _caught,”_ he advised before grumbling, “Take it from me.”

Malcolm highly doubted he’d end up in a high security mental institution if his minor plagiarism was discovered. Failing to present research on an academic study in one’s own words was nowhere near comparable to murdering twenty three people. The student continued, “The ratio between testosterone and cortisol may predispose to more severe forms of social aggression that include--"

“Be confident, Malcolm.”

Malcolm stopped and sighed as his father lectured, “People are attracted to confidence. Spine straight, shoulders back, head up. Be proud of what you’ve done. Don't let them see your exhaustion or doubt.”

 _“Okay,”_ Malcolm whined, obeying and straightening his posture.

Dr. Whitly smiled. “How many people are you presenting to?”

“Um, I don’t know.” Malcolm glanced at his paper, avoiding his father’s hawk-eyed gaze. “It’s the whole department. So, like…. A hundred? Or more? It’s going to be a lot of people,” he looked up to make eye contact, and therefore make his answer appear more truthful.

“Good,” Dr. Whitly purred. “Think of them as an army that you’re rallying. They’re not against you. They’re _with_ you. They just don't know it yet.”

“Sure,” Malcolm muttered with a false smile.

“Go on, son.”

Malcolm continued the rehearsal of his presentation, “ --that include both instrumental and reactive forms of aggression, as observed in psychopathy. Animal studies have shown that--”

“Slow down, you don’t have to rush through it.”

Malcolm sighed again and tossed a small glare through the bars, asking tersely, “Don’t interrupt.”

“I’m helping!” Dr. Whitly objected innocently.

“Let me finish.” Malcolm patted a hand in the air.

Dr. Whitly surrendered, gesturing for the teenager to go on with his presentation. The chain between his wrists rattled with the movement.

Malcolm glanced at his notes one last time and then lowered the paper, continuing from his last topic point by memory. “Animal studies have shown that one of the primary targets of testosterone and cortisol is the amygdala, a brain region which is consistently implicated in psychopathy.” He continued to pace back and forth across the room outside the cell, but he did speak more slowly, and less rushed.

His captive audience called out a reminder of, “Look confident.”

Malcolm refrained from rolling his eyes, instead exaggerating the straightness of his back and the squareness of his shoulders. “In the amygdala, cortisol is hypothesized to promote fearfulness and withdrawal behavior.”

Apparently, his act wasn't convincing enough. His father egged him on with a, “Hold your head up!”

Malcolm raised his chin and his voice grew stronger, bolstered further by his annoyance. He lectured the space in front of him as he paced. _“Testosterone_ has the _opposite_ effect – it serves to promote _approach behavior.”_

“Fantastic!” Dr. Whitly cheered with a large grin strung across his bearded face. “See what I mean about the confidence?”

 _“Psychopaths_ ,” Malcolm burst, sending the word through the air as if it was a dart aimed right at his father, “have also been known to have lower base levels of oxytocin and higher base levels of dopamine, resulting in more reward-seeking, _selfish_ behavior, and less empathy.”

He’d stopped pacing, and now was looking directly at his one-man audience. “Additionally, their serotonin levels differ from non-psychopaths because they are under more stress due to the need to _work_ to mimic others’ emotions.”

His hot air ran out, and he realized how strongly his heart was pumping. With a deep breath, he calmed himself and finished, “Since mimicry does not come as naturally to them.”

“That’s better,” Dr. Whitly appeared very satisfied with his son’s transformed performance, though he gave one final, small tip, “But I’d tone down the unbridled _rage._ You don’t want your audience to feel like you’re directly attacking them. It’ll put them off.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Stop focusing on _me._ What do you think about the _data?_ The content? Do I need more citations? Was it too boring? Are they gonna fall asleep?” Then he came to his real question. “Was it…. accurate?”

“Accurate?” his father repeated, scoffing, “Are you asking for my psychopathic expertise?”

“You’re also a _doctor,”_ Malcolm pointed out. “You’re the _prime_ source for this presentation, and…” he dropped his arms in defeat. “You're my dad. One would think you’d give me _honest_ feedback.”

“I _am_ giving you honest feedback!” Dr. Whitly whined.

“About the _content,_ dad, not about my showmanship!” Malcolm emphasized.

“The content is solid,” Dr. Whitly yielded. “Granted, not every psychopath is identical to another.”

Malcolm waited.

“Perhaps…” his father pondered, “you should emphasize that it _really_ is... _very_ hard work. Mimicking others’ emotions.” The Surgeon tipped his head and grinned, “As you know.”

“I'm not a psychopath,” Malcolm muttered, glaring down at his paper. No matter how many times he had to remind his father of that, it never seemed to stick in the man’s mind.

Dr. Whitly smiled at his son’s denial, but didn’t push it, only joking, “That sounds like something a psychopath would say. I would know.”

Malcolm ignored his father’s laughter and stared at him expectantly, needing more.

Dr. Whitly nodded to himself as he thought of what else he could offer. “Um…. The dopamine bit,” he drawled thoughtfully, wagging a pointed finger toward his son, “And the reward-seeking tendencies. You hit that right on the nose.”

Malcolm listened intently as his father seemed to open up, for once.

The Surgeon elaborated, “When I am… in a situation... I tend to experience... _constant_ thoughts of, ‘what can I get out of this, and _how_ do I get it?’” Dr. Whitly stared at the far wall of his cell and bobbed his head, expressing, “And an insatiable _need_ to get _something_ out of _everything.”_

Malcolm recapped bluntly, “You’re addicted to manipulating people.”

His father rolled his eyes. “Well, when you put it _that_ way….” It sounded very harsh. But it wasn't entirely inaccurate. Still, he neither confirmed nor denied it.

“I suppose you could call _this_ rehab,” Dr. Whitly gestured at his cell, grumbling, “Just without the _spa._ This place could really use one of those.” He looked over his shoulder to cast a glance at his guard. “Mr. David, why don’t you bring that up with your supervisor?”

Mr. David’s dull expression told the prisoner that he was _not_ going to bring it up with his supervisor. The Surgeon let it go with a disappointed mumble. “Well, I tried.”

He turned to look back at Malcolm, who had appeared to sink into a deep state of analysis. “Is that the kind of feedback you’re looking for, son?” Dr. Whitly’s voice was warm and knowing.

Malcolm surfaced from his contemplative trance, nodding with a sense of renewed peace and understanding. “Yes. Thank you.”

Dr. Whitly smiled tiredly. “Anytime, my boy.” He meant it.

Malcolm nodded again, then flashed a glance at the guard. A sign that he was thinking about leaving. Dr. Whitly was once again about to be abandoned to rot in isolation and decay from boredom.

He piped up before his son could craft up an eloquent ‘goodbye.’ “You don't truly care about this presentation, Malcolm.”

The teenager drew his gaze back to his caged father, who smiled.

“I know you, son.” There was kindness in his eyes. Kindness that swirled with mischief. “I know what you’re trying to do, and you’re doing a fine job. But you don’t have to beat around the bush. You don't have to do all this... _work_ to try to get around my ‘defenses’ and fish out some kind of _secret_ from me.”

Malcolm’s gaze was even and guarded. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he countered hollowly.

Dr. Whitly smirked. “You’re using this silly presentation, which you probably _entirely_ made up, as an opportunity to pick my brain,” he identified. He’d known it all along. But he liked playing games, and Malcolm was the _best_ partner to play them with. “That’s what you really want.”

Malcolm didn’t say anything.

“Put that silly paper down,” his father invited with a grin. “What do you _actually_ want me to tell you?”

* * *

The needle-like tip of a mechanical pencil scraped back and forth against a notepad.

His knee bounced every time he took the pencil away from the paper. He curled his toes in his shoes and flexed his hand around the writing utensil. The plastic strained, reminding him of its potential to crack if he held it too tightly. He relaxed his grip. His knee stopped bouncing, but the nervous tick moved elsewhere. Now he was furiously tapping the end of his pencil against a blank spot on the paper. He sighed and ceased that as well, glancing around himself and then checking his watch.

He cranked up the dial on his Walkman, deafening himself with the harsh crackle and drone of the 80’s music blaring from his headset into his ears. It wasn't very healthy for his cochlea, and he would probably regret it when he was older, but at that moment, he didn’t care. 

The minutes dragged on. He started measuring time by counting the tracks that passed on his cassette tape. But it didn’t help. He knew every track was about two minutes and forty-eight seconds long, on average. He calculated --with excruciating accuracy-- the exact moment when she should have arrived.

He lifted his eyes to subtly look over the park once more, focusing on the leaves rustling in the trees, or the pigeons strutting about the hexagon-shaped slabs of stone in the pathway, or some sudden movement from a stranger passing by. His peripherals soaked in everything else. All the information he actually wanted, but stole under the cover of innocent and seemingly natural looks. With only a few well-placed glances, he saw everything. But nothing he was looking for.

Martin Whitly returned his focus on his notepad and busied himself with more scratches of the pencil. Two more tracks played on the cassette tape. With another breath and a fake stretch, he took the chance to look around the park again. Nothing. He twisted to cast a glance at another entrance --one she hadn’t used yesterday. Still, nothing. With a silent growl, he rubbed his hand over his face, scratched his beard at the corner of his jaw, popped his neck, and then checked his watch for the umpteenth time.

She was five minutes and fifteen seconds late. At least, later than the time she’d arrived yesterday.

He placed an elbow on the armrest of the park bench and stared at his drawing with his fist against his mouth. His leg yearned to bounce again, but he concentrated on preventing it. His peripherals monitored the pathway around him as he stared at his drawing. Finally, he punched the button to pause his Walkman and placed his notepad on the bench beside him.

Martin braced his elbows on his knees and held his face in his hands, doing his best to rub away a migraine. Perhaps he should have taken some medication before he left.

Among the abundance of various shoes that trod and clacked against the pathway, he picked out the sound of a particular pair of heels. Heels that were different from the others. He’d only heard them twice before, but he recognized them. He looked up, saw her, and burst into a great grin --which he quickly brought back under control. 

Jessica Milton smirked at his smile, doing well to control her own. “You didn’t bring a brain this time?” she asked in playful shock.

Dr. Whitly picked up his notepad and swept a few leaves off the bench, preparing a space for her and shifting in his seat to ensure she had plenty of room to be comfortable. She sat down, strategically placing herself just a hair closer to him than she had sat yesterday, when they had been total strangers.

“No,” he chuckled, turning a page in his notes. “They don’t keep very well outside of their jars.”

She pulled off her sunglasses and gave him a confused wince.

“And the latex ones were all reserved.”

“Ugh.” She scoffed at the disgusting remark, but understood he was trying to be funny. “You have a terrible sense of humor, Martin,” she cringed.

He smiled at the fact that she’d remembered his name. “At least I’ve got one,” he merrily pointed out. “Most men in this city don’t.”

“True,” she groaned. The woman slid off her black gloves and tucked them into her pink snakeskin purse while muttering, “It’s brimming full of stuck-up businessmen with wads of cash shoved up their asses.”

Martin snickered, “Well, I am definitely not one of them.”

Jessica smirked coyly and crossed her legs. “Good,” she praised, lacing her fingers together and holding her knee.

Her eyes flickered to his smile, which was almost more fascinating when it was subtle. She tried to read it, but wasn't familiar enough with it to succeed. His eyes darted over her face too, and she believed that he liked what he saw. She watched his masculine lips part to murmur, “Did you have a good morning?”

The question caught her by surprise for a moment, and his consideration charmed her. “I did. Thank you."

“What did you do?” he asked. She could tell he was genuinely interested --not just going through the checklist of what ordinary people asked each other when they met up. It made her smile. Every woman wanted to be asked about herself. Her day, her thoughts, her feelings. She was delighted to answer him.

“Not much,” she hummed, listing, “Slept in. Got my nails done.” She stretched one hand in front of herself to check on them.

“I noticed.” He risked a glance at them, as if he were almost embarrassed to admit that he had perceived the difference between their current appearance and their appearance yesterday. He held out his hand. “May I see them?”

Jessica extended her arm toward him with a sinister smile, her wrist limp.

He moved the edge of his hand under her fingers as if he were about to help her step out of a royal carriage. His warm thumb passed over her dainty knuckles, but he applied no pressure to his hold, instead only touching her as if she were a sculpture of hollow glass. Her perfume radiated from her moisturized skin.

“They’re extraordinary,” he complimented her manicure with a twinkling smile. “And they match the color of your skirt!”

Jessica made a girlish, impressed noise. “You’re right, they do.” She appreciated his observance. So many men weren’t observant in the slightest, and little things like that made the biggest difference.

“Where did you get them done?” he asked, removing his thumb from over her smooth nails so she could take her hand back if she wished.

But she did not wish to take her hand back. Instead she let it rest over the edge of his as she babbled, “Vermella’s. On second avenue. They do a wonderful job.”

He scoffed, lowering their hands. “Well, at the price they charge, they better, right?”

“Oh, they’re not that expensive. And they love me. Even if it’s only because I leave very generous tips,” the woman laughed, giving his fingers a small squeeze before taking her hand away. It was a habit, really. She squeezed her girl friends’ hands all the time when they laughed and joked and gossiped together.

Martin mirrored her laugh, mimicking her social cues to adjust its nature and duration.

“Speaking of love,” she drawled. Not that she didn’t enjoy talking about herself, but because she was curious to hear what he had to teach her.

“Yes. Our lesson,” he grinned, then flipped a page in his notebook to reveal a short list of big, scientific words. “These... are some of the hormones in your brain, which mix together and act as the biological ingredients for ‘love.’ Do you recognize any of them?”

“Dopamine,” she identified.

“Yes, that’s a common one. It triggers the reward system in your brain, which creates obsessive behavior. It’s most often associated with addictions, but… well, perhaps you could say love is an addiction too,” he smiled at her. 

She smiled back at him.

He continued, gesturing a hand between them as he explained, “You feel a rush of dopamine when you interact with someone you like, which then gives you a desire to have repeated encounters with them.” He added a fun fact, “It’s also a large reason why people become depressed when they break up with someone, and why they yearn to start another relationship so quickly after a breakup.”

“A rebound,” Jessica nodded, smirking bitterly. “I totally get it.”

Martin smiled.

“But let’s start at the very beginning.” Dr. Whitly set his notebook on his leg and held his hands between them to present a secret formula to her. She twisted herself to face him, giving him her full attention.

“When two people meet for the very first time, they instantly make up their minds on if that person is worth considering as a mate.” He lifted one finger. “It takes less than one second to decide ‘no.’ People tend to not want to waste time on something that’s clearly not going to work.”

“What makes it a ‘yes?’” she asked, turning her head with a devilish grin.

“Well, many things. Desirable characteristics,” he elaborated, “Good genes. Traits that provide a... higher chance of producing healthy offspring.”

 _“‘Offspring?’”_ she repeated with a judgmental chuckle. It was a very strange word to use --as if he was comparing people to animals. “You mean, _‘children?’”_

“Yes.” He didn’t see what was wrong with the word he’d used, but clearly she preferred a different synonym. “That is the end product of this… _recipe,”_ he professed. “That’s why all this happens in the first place. It’s our ancient programming. We are biologically wired to reproduce. That’s how we ultimately survive.”

This shouldn’t have been news to her, yet she was giving him a slightly ridiculous look.

“Did I say something... wrong?” he asked cautiously.

She blinked and shook her head. “No, I’ve just… never heard someone say _‘offspring’_ when they referred to _children,”_ she chuckled.

He repaired his apparent mistake by reminding her gently, “Well, I am a doctor. We tend to use quite an array of vocabulary.”

“Fair enough,” she surrendered. “So what are some of these ‘desirable characteristics’ that people look for when they consider someone for a ‘mate?’”

Dr. Whitly ran through the list in his head. “Well, ah, symmetry of the face. That’s one secret to attraction. And pheromones play a big factor. The way someone naturally smells.”

“Voice is important,” he added with a nod. “Most women want a man with a good, _strong_ voice.” He applied a hint of strength in his own to accentuate that part, and Jessica grinned as she found that she did actually enjoy the hint of a growl beneath his low, gentle tone.

“As for what men want...” he began.

“Ohhh, they want a gal who’s drop-dead gorgeous and as skinny as a _toothpick,”_ Jessica guessed with a roll of her eyes.

His smile shone as he corrected her with a not-so-well-known fact. “Actually, the majority of studies show that, ah… _‘curvy’_ women are more attractive to the average man.”

Jessica appeared shocked with a humored disbelief. “Nuh uh. You’re making that up.”

“It’s true!” he protested happily, then explained, “It connects back to our natural instincts to seek a mate with good genes. More body mass means a better chance of survival in times of famine.” 

She groaned. Again with the primitive theories.

With a mischievous smile, Martin added, _“And,_ more of someone to hold. What’s not to love about that?”

She glared at him with a guarded smile, analyzing whether or not he was being honest. He held her gaze evenly, innocently, and proudly. Jessica smiled and glanced down to her hands in her lap.

“Contrary to what your magazines may tell you, men aren’t all that picky,’ he disclosed.

She sighed theatrically, “The men _I’ve_ dated certainly are.”

He leaned a little closer to her and murmured, “If I may be so bold, I think you’ve been dating the wrong type of men.”

Jessica closed her eyes and laughed, “I think you’re right.”

* * *

“Why did you choose mom?”

“What?” The Surgeon asked, slow to process the abrupt pivot in topics.

“Mom,” Malcolm repeated. He sat on the cold, hard ground in front of the cell, folding his research paper into a paper airplane. “What was it about her that made you choose her, instead of somebody else?”

Also sitting on the cold, hard ground, Dr. Whitly watched his son fold the paper as he leaned against the bars of his cage in the corner nearest to Malcolm. He exhaled a small chuckle, like it was a silly question. “Well… why does anyone choose a mate?” 

Malcolm dragged a look up at his father’s false smile. The murderer was comparing himself to ‘anyone,’ as if he was just like everyone else. Normal. Ordinary. Guilt-less. Sinless. It wasn't true. Malcolm’s question wasn't a generic one. “I’m talking about you, specifically, dad. Why did you choose her?”

Dr. Whitly took a breath and shrugged, “She had good genes. She was stunning. And smart, and…”

Malcolm focused on making his paper airplane. He shouldn’t have expected a real answer from him. 

But then he got one.

“And she was _kinda_ helpless.”

Malcolm looked up at his father again, whose expression resembled a sympathetic wince. But only for a moment. “A real ‘daddy’s little princess,’” Dr. Whitly drawled. “Except, her dad wasn't all that prevalent in her life.” He pointed at his son and delivered a key tip. “Find a girl who’s got daddy issues. They’re always easy to win over. Just _dying_ for a man’s attention.”

Martin thought he was giving the teenager such good advice, but the boy furrowed his brow. 

“I don’t mean that in a malicious may,” Dr. Whitly clarified, testifying, “It’s a viable strategy.”

Malcolm had an outline of a grimace on his face, but he didn’t argue. “Did you think that she was _‘the one?’”_ he asked, using quotations in his voice.

With a slow grin, The Surgeon employed his own pair of air quotes and warned, “I think our definitions of _‘the one’_ might differ significantly, Malcolm.”

Malcolm looked at him. “How do you define it?”

Dr. Whitly gazed at his son’s busy hands while he thought about that briefly. “Well… when I think of ‘the one’ I think of the _best_ one. Or, at the very least, the one that would _work.”_ He graciously offered his son a turn, “How do you define it?”

Malcolm studied his aerodynamic craft while he thought about that deeply. “Well….” He did that thing with his mouth where he pressed his lips together before formulating an intelligent observation. He’d done it since he was a toddler. “Usually people define it as… like, a soul mate.” 

Dr. Whitly smiled, noticing that his son had answered the question generically, not specifically. But he didn't criticize the hypocrite. It was clear that Malcolm hadn’t developed his own definition of ‘the one’ yet. That’s why he was asking; to gather information to make his own judgement about what it meant to him.

“Those don't exist, son. You’re going to be very disappointed if you go through your life looking for something as silly as that,” Martin informed him. “It’s just romantic propaganda.”

Malcolm thought about that.

“So, I suppose, to me, yes. She was _‘the one.’”_ The Surgeon admitted, smirking. He lifted his chained hands to praise the higher powers above. “She was heaven-sent, like an angel!” Dropping his hands and dimming his smile, he muttered, “It was a certified _miracle_ that we ended up together.”

“I don’t think mom would call it that,” Malcolm mused. He looked rather forlorn.

Martin stared at him curiously, reading every inch of him. “What you need to do is find the _best_ one that can _work,_ Malcolm. The highest possible prize you could reasonably obtain."

Malcolm sighed. “Women aren’t prizes, dad.”

“Aren’t they?” Dr. Whitly gently challenged. He winked. “Think about it.”

Malcolm did think about it, and he found that there was a good connotation to be found in that perspective along with a bad one. Prizes were things to be valued and treated as special. Things that shouldn’t be taken for granted. Still, the word compared women to objects, and that wasn't right.

“Now, this may come as a surprise to you, but it was very hard for me to find a serious partner,” Dr. Whitly babbled. “I was a nobody. I was constantly busy with school, and work, and I had nothing going for me. Except my good looks,” he grinned.

Malcolm shook his head at his father’s arrogant joke.

“But _you….”_ Martin pointed at his son. “You could have _anybody_ you want. You have a literal foundation in your name, immense wealth, _great_ looks, healthy genes --you’re well on your way to becoming the next _Einstein--_ and you’re _likable!”_ Dr. Whitly listed passionately. “That’s the most important thing."

Martin was very proud of himself. “I provided you with _everything_ you need to succeed in life,” he purred with a fond look. “You’re going to have girls lining the block for you, and your only job is to pick the very best one.”

Malcolm was silent, acting as if he hadn’t paid attention to a word he’d said.

Dr. Whitly’s smile faded. He watched the teenager finish the last fold of his creation and then examine it’s symmetry and balance. The boy turned the paper airplane to aim its sharp point at his father as if it were a dart ready to fire. “Did you fall in love with her?”

Malcolm had his father’s undivided attention now that he was enticing him with something he wanted. A fun interaction with his son. A reward, and all Dr. Whitly had to do to get it was answer his question.

Martin stared at the teenager in hopeful anticipation, wondering if he’d make good on his incentive and actually throw the toy.

“With mom?” Malcolm fired the weapon, following through with the playful gesture in exchange for an honest answer.

The plane soared perfectly through a gap in the bars of the cell and poked into Dr. Whitly’s shoulder, causing him to flinch and grin. He glanced happily to Mr. David, who was staring at them with the same dull look he always had. Martin wasn't supposed to have anything in his cell, especially during a visit. It was only a piece of paper, but even the most harmless of objects were forbidden.

The Surgeon waited like a good boy. Mr. David didn’t react. They shared a brief telepathic conversation as Dr. Whitly made a silent request. Mr. David didn’t necessarily give him permission, but he didn’t say _‘no,’_ either. With a peaceful, docile gaze aimed at his guard, Martin carefully picked up the paper airplane. He looked at it for a moment, running his fingers over its wings and fixing the tiny dent in its nose. His son had done a wonderful job in making it.

“I wouldn’t have stuck around if I didn’t like her, son,” Martin grinned, sending the plane darting back the way it’d came. It soared through the bars of the cell again.

Malcolm caught it against his chest, looked it over, and then poised it for another throw. But he held it tight as he challenged, “Wouldn’t you?”

Dr. Whitly’s attention darted between the plane and his son’s face, yearning for him to throw it again. He wanted to play with the boy for as long as Mr. David would mercifully allow, but it was clear he had to answer the question first. “Well…”

Malcolm stared at him. He knew how his father worked. When he was desperate, he was honest. Or at least, he wasn't able to craft a lie as quickly or convincingly.

The answer was clear. Martin would have stuck with her even if he hadn’t liked her.

Malcolm lowered the plane in his lap and fiddled with the wings. “Did you truly care about her?” he murmured, repeating his question.

Dr. Whitly’s smile wavered, but he forced a grin to replace it. “Of course I did.”

Malcolm stared at him and tried to peer through whatever facade his father may or may not have put up.

His father’s smile shifted into one that was more sad, and he failed to hold his son’s gaze. “I still do,” he claimed, picking at his nails. Soon, the smile was entirely gone.

“And I always will.”


	3. Chapter 3

An afghan throw blanket was stretched out beneath Jessica’s waxed legs and spring dress. It was a rather hideous blanket --in terms of design-- sporting squares of clashing colors, including orange, pink, brown, turquoise, and lilac. But it was clean, and it was soft, and it was far better to sit on than the prickly grass. She flipped through a book in front of her bare folded knees. It was not a self-help book. It was a sketchbook.

Inside, there resided detailed drawings of various vertebrae, the intricate bones of the hands and feet, the muscle patterns of one’s neck and back, and sketches of hearts --though not the typical ones that a student would doodle in their notebooks.

“You are an _incredible_ artist, Martin. Where did you learn to draw?”

A headset hugged the sides of Jessica’s head, struggling to contain her voluminous auburn locks. It was placed askew so that one of her ears remained uncovered for their conversation. Foreigner’s album _‘Agent Provocateur’_ graciously flowed through the Walkman that lay between the two of them. Martin wore the second headset around his neck, lying on his side next to where she knelt with his head propped up by one fist.

“Nowhere. I just… started doing it,” he shrugged, watching her turn the pages. “Whenever I had time to _kill,”_ he mused slowly with a personal smirk. He looked up at the woman beside him, staring at her while she flipped through a few more pages. She caught his gaze for a moment, but he avoided it, lowering his eyes to the book and struggling to hold back a smile.

A smile also crept across Jessica’s ruby lips. When she returned her own attention to the sketches, his gaze instantly returned up to her. Her eyes darted to catch him in the act once again, and this time he held his focus on her, surrendering their chase of looks.

She lifted a hand to slide off her headset, grinning, “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he chuckled and shook his head, rocking his skull back and forth on the knuckles of his fist. Yet he still couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“What are you looking at?” she coaxed curiously, knowing that it was not ‘nothing.’ Had her makeup smeared? Were her bangs sticking up? She must have had something in her teeth, or perhaps she had been caught breathing through her mouth again.

He continued staring up at her, taking in every inch of her features as if committing them to memory. “The most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he answered warmly.

She grinned and blushed, shaking her head at his blatant flirt. She’d never heard a thing that sounded so cheesy. But he also made it sound so genuine.

* * *

A flock of five fabulous women chattered around the dining table, but one voice soared above the rest. “Ladies! I have an announcement to make.” The woman stuck out her hand to show off what hugged one slender finger; a ten carat princess cut diamond ring. The stone was as large as one of her manicured nails. “I’m _engaged!”_

Squeals and screams followed. Jessica Milton was the first to erupt into a joyful cry for her friend, but she remained seated across the table while Nancy and Sharon swarmed Kathleen. “Congratulations, sweetie!” Nancy whined dotingly in her high-pitched voice. “Ugh, you’re so darling. Just look at this ring!” Sharon offered her approval too. “George did a _spectacular_ job, Kathy.”

“He sure did. I couldn’t ask for a better man,” the southern belle blushed, allowing her friends to examine the treasure.

Just like the women who gave it life, Jessica Milton’s house was delicate, flawless, and brimming with bold, refined character. Her dining room was hands-down the most exquisite and charming place to have brunch, which they so looked forward to all week long. It had been unanimously decided long ago that she was the best host, with the best house staff and the best food.

Today the culinary centerpieces were an assortment of delectable mini quiches and a lavish shrimp platter. To drink; screwdrivers, mimosas, and Jessica’s personal favorite, Bloody Marys. A spread of garnishes offered the options of pickles, olives, okra, jalapeños, radishes, celery, lemon slices, parsley, basil, bacon squares, and quarters of hard-boiled eggs --just to name a few.

They utilized these weekly brunches to catch up about their ever-busy lives, their minor pains, their great triumphs, their latest shopping trips, and especially, their endeavors with the opposite sex.

Kathleen’s endeavors were obviously going well, as she was freshly engaged to George, the accountant. She had been one of Jessica’s roommates in college, and hadn’t changed much since. The southern belle was still naive, still blonde enough to earn the title of platinum, and still as one-dimensional and flat as a sheet of paper. But her accent was pleasant and she was usually quite shy, which meant that she was a superb listener.

Nancy’s endeavors were well on their way to bearing fruit, as she was in the second trimester of her first pregnancy --and _constantly_ famished. Jessica never had to worry about any food going to waste as long as the freckled, strawberry blonde was at the table. Of course, she’d chosen to forgo the bloody marys, but made up for it by filling her plate with a dozen mini shish kabobs full of bacon. Jessica had grown up with Nancy. She was sweet like fruit, lively like spring, and married to Tim, who was a genius with computers.

Sharon was older, invested in a dull marriage, and continued to attend church with the Miltons as she’d done for their entire lives. She was like a big sister to the younger girls. Her hair was a muddy brown color which lacked vibrance, just like her relationship with Carl, the wealthy Manhattan property manager. Usually, she tried to cover her depression with makeup, but these brunches did their job in bringing an honest smile back to her face and filling an empty pit of loneliness in her heart.

Debra, on the other hand, possessed a relentless cynicism that not even Jessica’s parties could cure. She wore a collection of sparkly rings, but none of them were attached to a marriage any more. Richard had been one of the architects who’d built the Met, though on the day of its opening, he celebrated by cheating on poor Debra with another woman. In the divorce, she’d fought hard for the lioness’ share of their fortune, and had triumphed in winning it in court, thanks to a very talented lawyer whose name matched her favorite alloy of silver. Debra had worked with Jessica’s mother for a while, and only continued to attend the girls’ brunches because she had no other friends. She was much less enthusiastic about Kathleen’s announcement. “Enjoy it while it lasts, honey.”

“Enjoy what?” Kathleen asked innocently.

“Being a lovesick puppy,” Debra swirled her drink, which was so strong, it was practically pure rubbing alcohol. “In three years, you’re going to be exactly where I am.”

Jessica scoffed an, “Oh, don’t listen to her,” followed by Nancy’s, “That’s not true, dear.”

“When the rose-colored lenses come off, you’ll know what I mean,” Debra muttered.

Sharon didn’t necessarily disagree, but she murmured with a sad wisdom, “Don’t let her ruin your fun.” She squeezed the young lady’s shoulders. “Enjoy it while it lasts!”

Kathleen grinned, then reached out to hold Jessica’s hands, whining longingly, “Oh Jess, imagine if we _both_ could have been married this summer!” She pouted. “I’m sorry about--”

Jessica waved her sympathy away, laughing, _“Please,_ don’t be! Heaven knows that would have been a _terrible_ idea! I couldn’t imagine being a bride _and_ a bridesmaid in the same month. I’d go insane!”

As Sharon took her seat again, she asked, “How _are_ you doing Jessica? Has he called you at all?”

Jessica made a face and rolled her eyes, reaching for another mini quiche. “No, that man is _long_ gone. And good riddance! He was an asshole anyway.” Changing subjects, she smiled and lifted her brows. “But speaking of _me,_ I did meet someone the other day."

“Meet someone?” Sharon froze in the middle of placing her kerchief in her lap.

“Oooh!” Kathleen squealed.

“Already?” Nancy gasped.

“Jessica, it’s only been a _week,”_ Debra criticized.

“He’s just a friend,” Jessica assured, raising her Bloody Mary to her lips so she could hide a coy smirk behind the rim of the glass. “For now.”

“Who is he?” Kathleen prompted excitedly.

Jessica set her glass down and gave her friend a devious look, speaking the name eloquently while rolling her shoulder, “Doctor Martin Whitly.” She rather liked the sound of the sharp consonants on her tongue. “I don’t know much about him yet,” she yielded with a raised hand, “but he works at Saint Edwards and _he’s delightful!”_

“A doctor?” Nancy repeated.

“A _surgeon,”_ Jessica corrected.

The ladies seemed impressed, except for Debra, who grouched, “I’ve never met a surgeon I liked. Arrogant know-it-alls.”

Jessica chortled. “Well, this one is _very_ smart, but he’s also very sweet. And he’s quite handsome,” she admitted, though quickly moved on to groan, “If only he’d shave. He has a full _mane,”_ she exaggerated with a laugh.

“Are surgeons _allowed_ to have beards?” Kathleen asked, puzzled.

“They have special coverings for them.”

“Surgeons make good money,” Sharon murmured her approval.

“Yes. _Eventually._ He’s still a resident,” Jessica elaborated.

Nancy seemed less impressed. “Oh. A resident?” 

“Yes, but he’s nearly finished,” Jessica assured, waving away her disappointment.

“Does he live around here?” Kathleen asked.

“I’m sure he does.”

“Has he asked you out?” Sharon asked.

“No, not yet,” Jessica hummed. “We’ve been chatting at the park. He _loves_ talking. He goes on and on--”

Kathleen winced, “Ooh, I could never date a man who talked about himself all the time.”

“I didn’t say he talks about _himself.”_ Jessica gently wrangled control of the conversation again. “He likes to talk about… _work._ And _me._ He’s _always_ asking me questions about myself!” She bragged, “Yesterday, he even noticed I was wearing a _new perfume._ ”

Nancy rolled her eyes “Ugh, I wish _my_ husband would notice when _I_ try different fragrances. I swear he can’t tell the difference between peach and lavender!”

Sharon miserably pitched in, “Last night when Carl and I went out to the SkyLoft, he asked if I was wearing a new dress. I’ve had that dress for _a decade.”_ She rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I worry he’ll mistake another woman for me and wouldn’t even notice until he’s had two more kids with her.”

Jessica laughed and boasted, “Oh, Martin is _very_ observant. I’m fairly certain he’d notice if I forgot to take my _vitamins_ in the morning.”

“What else does he do, besides cut people open?” Debra asked.

“Well…” Jessica thought about that, then began to list, “He studies a lot. Listens to music. And he draws! _Incredibly_ well!”

“Is that all?” Debra quizzed. Her hawk eyes drilled into the Milton.

“I’ve only seen the man a few times,” Jessica smiled, defending, “I’m still learning about him.”

“Is he from New York?” Nancy asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Which school did he go to; Stanford, Johns Hopkins, or Harvard?” Sharon inquired.

“You know, I haven’t asked him, yet.”

“I’m betting it was Johns Hopkins,” Kathleen predicted. “All the best surgeons come from there.”

“Has he got any family?” Debra asked, clearly irritated at the total lack of information.

Jessica took a breath and shook her head as if it was a silly question. “I’m _sure_ he does, Debbie.”

“That’s important,” Debra pointed at her with her fork. “You find a man who values family, and you’ll have much less of a chance of him running off with some young fox ten years from now. Like Richard did,” she muttered bitterly.

Jessica spread her hands and maintained a chipper tone, soothing their concerns and quelling their relentless questions. “These are all things that I will _surely_ find out. Don’t you worry, ladies. And I will most definitely update you _all_ on the _marvelous_ Doctor Martin Whitly at our next Sunday brunch.”

* * *

It was time to break the alcohol out of its glass cage. At Ms. Whitly’s call, Louisa brought a glass over. Jessica took it with a relieved “Thank you, dear,” and then quickly instructed, “Leave the bottle.” Louisa placed it on the dining table beside her employer.

With a worried look on her face, Ainsley watched her mother chug the wine as if it were orange juice.

When Jessica was finished, she exhaled a long puff of air through her ruby lips as she began pouring from the bottle to refill her drink. “Would you like some, dear?” she asked with a plastic smile.

“Mom. I’m--”

“Oh. Right,” the woman winced, trying to laugh at her silly mistake. “Underage.” She stared at her glass with a brief raise of her brows, questioning what the _hell_ she’d been thinking, offering a glass to her daughter.

“How long did you two date?”

Jessica cupped the oversized bowl with one hand and brought the rim to her lips with a distracted, “Hm?”

“You and dad?” Ainsley reminded gently.

Jessica looked past her daughter and struggled to form two very simple words. “Not long.” She shook her head, adding, “Definitely not as long as we _should_ have,” before taking another long sip of alcohol.

Ainsley waited until her mother had downed the second glass. She tried not to judge, but she hated seeing her mother like this --leaning on spirits as a crutch for her own.

“I think I was a little desperate,” Jessica admitted with a mumble, reaching for the bottle once more.

“Why?”

“Well, I... I didn’t want to feel _alone_ and… _worthless,_ anymore,” Jessica focused on the river of wine that flowed from the bottle. She’d wished Louisa had brought something a little stronger, so she didn’t have to look like such a monster in front of her daughter, taking drink after drink just to get a tiny buzz. “Martin made me feel… valued and adored. _Indisposable,_ ” she shrugged, “For a time.”

She placed the bottle back on the table and swirled the wine in her glass, watching it twirl and breathing in its aroma. “He used to look at me like I was made of starlight,” she smirked, appearing to think it was merely humorous, now. “He _idolized_ me,” she reminisced, “And I _loved_ being idolized."

* * *

Jessica turned another page, and her pretty mouth dropped open when she saw something she hadn’t expected to find in the sketchbook. “Is that _me?”_

The drawing was indeed of her. The shading and detail of the sketch was divine. Her head was turned, her shoulder raised. Her full lips were smiling to reveal a glimpse of her two pearly front teeth. She had low-cast eyes, thick lashes, and puffy hair that indeed looked angelic around her bare shoulders. The outline of a sleeveless dress was all that was left to be finished about the drawing, yet even in the early stages of being penciled-in, it still showed off her curves with great accuracy. Her legs were Barbie-like, and her heels leopard-spotted. She held her snakeskin purse with painted nails.

“It’s... remarkable,” she gasped, struggling to take it in.

“Well, then it’s just like you,” Martin murmured.

She gave him another look --one that aimed a scoff at his blatant adoration. Yet, she was powerless to hold back a flattered grin. She stared at the drawing, seeing herself in his eyes. As someone beautiful. So beautiful that she looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine! Yet the depiction was simultaneously honest and true to reality. He’d even captured the shapes of the apples of her cheeks and the squareness of her jaw, qualities that she found herself self-conscious about, yet that didn’t look terrible at all when they were created by his hand.

Martin lied on his back, folding his arms behind his head. “Tell me _everything_ about you. I’m fascinated by you.”

“As fascinated as you are with your work?” She challenged with a smirk, forcing herself to stop staring at the silly drawing.

“More!” he claimed, grinning up at her.

“Well,” she scanned the park, thinking of what to start with. “I went to Wellesley.”

“Ah, the girls’ school,” he recognized. “Did you like it there?”

“I loved it,” she announced, “The campus is gorgeous. Ugh, that pond! So darling. And I met some very good friends there.”

“What did you study?”

“Oh, a bit of everything,” Jessica tossed her hair and plumped it while checking for any pesky flyaways. “Anthropology, economics, literature. My actual degree is in nonprofit management.”

“I should have guessed,” he mused. “What, ah… what does one do with that sort of degree?”

“Humanitarian work.”

He slowly nodded as if his question hadn’t quite been answered.

“It's very important,” she assured, then echoed what he’d said the other day. “What better way to spend one’s life than contributing to the betterment of the lives of _others?”_ She shrugged one shoulder and smirked before gesturing at his sketchbook. "You help people with your surgical procedures, and I help people with my compassionate speeches and unlimited amounts of money!”

“We’re practically a pair of superheros, aren’t we?” he snickered.

Jessica hummed a laugh and rolled on her hips to sit with her legs stretched outwards, leaning back on her arms and propping herself up like an easel to bask in the sun. “It wasn't my choice. My parents planned out my entire life since the day I was conceived,” she groaned.

“You poor thing,” Martin joked, sitting up and resting his elbows on his knees. “What would you have done if you'd been born with... _total_ freedom?” he asked, gesturing with his hand as if she had a spread of options in front of her. “Without the... _chains_ of society _shackled_ around your pretty little ankles?” he joked dramatically, gesturing at them.

She grinned at his theatrical silliness, wiggling her bare feet to play along. But her smile wavered as she considered his question seriously. “I don't know, really. Everything’s always been laid at my feet and planned out for me.” Jessica sighed like it was a heavy burden. But then she disclosed, “Honestly, I’m quite happy with how everything turned out. My parents know a thing or two about success and I’m lucky to be where I am today. I don’t think I would have had it any other way.”

With a tempting look, she inquired, “What about you?”

“Me?”

“Would you have wanted to be anything else, other than a surgeon?”

“No,” he exhaled through a grin and shook his head, “No, it was… definitely a surgeon.”

She waited for a moment, but he didn’t seem interested in saying anything else about the matter. Instead, he was content just gazing at her. This time, she didn’t gaze back. She tossed her hair again and turned her face up to the sky. “I think one of the reasons why my parents molded me into what I am was because I was their only one. They had to get me right because I was their only shot,” she theorized to the clouds overhead. “Sometimes I wish I had a sister. It was lonely, living in that house alone. But nice, too. I got _all_ the attention. All the clothes, toys… and all of the family’s future obligations pressed down on my shoulders,” she smirked. She looked over at the man again, extending an invitation for him to participate in the conversation, “Do you have any siblings?”

Martin shook his head.

“So you got all your parents’ attention too?”

“Perhaps too much.” He gave her a brief, tight smile that she hadn’t seen on his face before. “I actually moved here to get _away_ from them.” He sat forward and removed his headset from around his neck, placing it atop the Walkman and pausing the cassette tape now that they were done listening to it. Clearly, the topic of family was not something he was comfortable discussing. It briefly worried Jessica, and her spirits sagged.

“Sometimes, that’s what you gotta do,” Martin stretched his back with an arch of his shoulders and a twist of his spine. “Get away for a while.” He rested his elbows on his knees and looked at her again. “Have you ever thought about doing something like that?”

“My family is quite difficult to escape,” she grumbled, sitting forward and habitually adjusting her skirt to cover her knees. She glanced at her painted toenails and noticed that they were not perfectly symmetrical. She bent her knees and folded her legs to one side to hide the fact.

He tipped his head and suggested, “Wull, maybe you just need someone to come steal you away from your tower.”

Jessica guffawed. “I think that would be called _kidnapping,_ Martin.”

“No, it’s called _rescuing,”_ he grinned.

They shared a chuckle, but Jessica continued to defend her situation, “I’m not some damsel in distress! It’s quite nice in that tower, thank you very much,” she smiled, clasping her hands together in her lap and lifting her shoulders. Her lovely home was the envy of all in the kingdom.

“But are you happy?” Martin asked with a soft, serious look on his mountain man face.

Jessica Milton opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Her breath seemed to vanish in her throat and she stalled through her hesitation with a smile that tugged at her parted lips. After a moment of quick thinking, she answered with a careful nod, “I am _content.”_

“You deserve to be more than _‘content,’”_ Martin voiced sadly. “You deserve to be _happy._ ” He turned to face her more directly and asked, “What would make you happy?”

She could tell from his kind smile that he was determined to give her whatever she desired to achieve that state of ‘deserved’ happiness. It was painfully sweet, and she scoffed with a guarded breath as she tore her gaze away to look down at her hands in her lap. He patiently waited for her response.

Jessica thought long and hard, then finally sighed and admitted, “It would be _nice_ to get away for awhile.” She lifted her head again to shake it at the man. “But I could _never_ leave any of this behind. Nobody would plan dinners _nearly_ as well as I!” she joked, donning a painted smile. She knew that he saw straight through it. But he didn’t push the matter, and for that she was grateful.

“Well, if you ever change your mind,” he murmured lowly, telling her in a warm tone that his door was always open if she needed an escape route.

She conveyed her gratitude in a similarly warm tone. “You’ll be the first to know.” Then she changed the subject, turning it back onto him and his mysterious secrets. “What about _your_ parents? Did they help you pay for school at all?”

He didn’t answer immediately, but he maintained eye contact. “No.” He said the word emotionlessly, as if she’d asked him an insignificant question, such as if he needed to run to the grocery store.

“How _are_ you paying for school?” Jessica asked, curious. “Just through loans?” She tried not to sound concerned, but she couldn't help it.

He gave her a partial shrug and a little more insight. “I got a few scholarships, at first.” The man adjusted the way he sat, lowering his knees and crossing his legs into a pretzel. “And I worked hard. But uh… sometimes things don't work out.” He shrugged again, holding his hands in his lap similarly to how she held hers.

“You lost your scholarships?” She translated carefully.

Martin didn’t answer. He only chased his thumbs around each other. That was a ‘yes.’

“Why? Did your GPA drop?” Jessica asked, confused. He seemed like such a good student, and he was so remarkably smart. She immediately wanted to believe that this terrible news was not his fault.

“A little,” he admitted, veiling his disappointment and shame with a thin layer of indifference. He glanced down at his hands for a moment, murmuring with a teaspoon of bitterness, “Can’t be perfect _all_ the time.”

“How much?” she asked, her tone gentle and soft.

“I got a B on a test,” he sighed, lifting his gaze to shrug again. “I needed an A.”

Jessica scoffed --half in relief, and half in exasperation. “Is that all?” One silly test, and he’d lost his scholarships? She believed that was ridiculous, and entirely not fair. She also believed that it was the total and complete truth.

“That was all,” Martin confirmed, sharing in her beliefs. ”The slightest mistake and you lose _everything,”_ he grumbled, then watched as the woman shook her head.

Jessica tried to think of a way to console him without babying him. She settled upon drawing from her personal experiences being ‘consoled.’ “Well, as my parents always tell me; if perfection wasn’t difficult to achieve, it wouldn't be so special.” She hoped it came across as caring and not critical, but by the look on his face, she suspected that she had failed to deliver it that way.

“They ingrained that into you, didn’t they?” Martin asked with a soft, scrutinous squint. “The need to be perfect.”

Jessica recognized that he’d very subtly and effectively shifted the spotlight right back onto her, but he was correct, and she acknowledged her parents’ diligent work with a sigh. “They certainly did.” Defending them, she shook her head. “But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Perfection _should_ be strived for,” she preached.

Martin shifted in his seat to face her and leaned towards her slightly as if he was magnetized to the conversation. “But doesn’t that make you feel like you’re not enough? For them?"

“Sometimes, but--”

“What if that bleeds over into your other relationships?” Martin worried, shrugging as hypothetical scenarios popped into his concerned head. “What if you start feeling like you’re not enough for... a _lover?”_

Jessica looked down at her hands and played with the hemline of her skirt, feeling a small lump appear in her heart, throat, and whatever organ housed her self-confidence.

Martin noticed, and identified with a shocked, gentle murmur, “You already have felt that, haven't you? Like you weren’t enough for someone.”

Jessica remained silent, but she refused to feel sad. She refused to feel any sort of weakness. Instead, her face set in a stone-like strength, fueled with mild irritation and bitterness.

Martin noticed that, too, and he backed off. “I’m sorry, I-- I don't mean to pick you apart.” He laughed weakly. “I practically performed a biopsy on you there, didn’t I?” His cautious smile didn’t last long, seeing that she did not take the offered opportunity to laugh off his emotional digging. Perhaps he had dug too far. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

“No, you’re right.”

Jessica inhaled a long breath and lifted her head again. With her chin turned upwards, she reported, as if establishing a record with blunt, emotionless, factual truth, “Up until recently, I was dating a man named Thomas James. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”

Martin had not.

“He’s in the business of television. Marketing and advertising, specifically. So, naturally, he… sees great value in the appearance of things,” she explained before continuing, “For a time, I thought he saw great value in _me._ But evidently, that was not true.”

“What happened between you two?” Martin risked asking.

Jessica held his gaze and didn’t answer for a while. When she did, she spoke with a dull neutrality, speaking from healing scars instead of from raw bleeding wounds. “He cheated on me with another woman.”

Martin’s calm, curious gaze did not change.

Jessica smirked and rolled her eyes. “Apparently, to _him,_ ‘perfection’ meant skinny and blonde, of which I am neither.” She tried to regard the sentence with something other than pain, but it was difficult, and for a second, she cracked. Her lips tensed, and she pressed them together to stop them from trembling.

“Oh, Jessie,” he purred empathetically. “That’s terrible.”

She looked at the hemline of her skirt again, rubbing it between her fingers. She liked that nickname. Jessie. She’d always been called ‘Jess’ by friends and family. Jessie was new.

“Who could ever do that to you?"

Before she knew it, he had reached over to take her hand in his. His grip was gentle, yet firm. His other hand came to close over top of hers, completely enveloping it in the warmth of his skin. She watched his thumb pass back and forth over hers as he pressed her small palm between his two larger ones.

“All you’ve ever needed was for someone to tell you that _you are enough.”_

She hesitated to look up at his eyes, already feeling that internal lump swell in her heart and throat.

“You _are,_ Jessica. You’re much _more_ than enough, in my eyes.”

She hadn’t seen his face distort with compassion like this before. He appeared as if it caused him physical pain to see her own. As if in this moment, he felt every sorrow-filled emotion that she’d ever felt. He saw these things in her and reflected them back at her with mesmerizing accuracy.

He spoke as if every person who had ever wronged her had wronged the most important person in the universe, and had wronged _him,_ too.

She felt both understood, and valued. It pulled tears into her eyes.

“I wish everybody on this planet could see you the way I see you.” A smile crept back onto his face --its light washing away all the sorrow and pain. She reflected the expression back, releasing a small, tight laugh as he inexplicably filled her with a healing happiness. “You would never feel insufficient again,” he promised her of it with a small shake of his head.

* * *

“Would you tell her that for me?”

Malcolm looked up from the paper airplane in his hands. “What?”

The teenager had bent the wings into zig-zags --having crimped them like a pair of Ruffles chips-- never to fly again, but instead only to serve as a pretty, mutilated piece of artwork that was either destined for his shelf or the trash bin, depending on how merciful he felt.

“That I still love her,” his father murmured, gazing listlessly at the plane. He noticed that the folds were nearly perfectly symmetrical, and admired his son’s artwork. “And that I always will.”

Malcolm turned the plane over in his hands. “She doesn’t know I still visit you.”

“She doesn’t?” Martin looked up at his son’s face, confused.

“No.” Malcolm held the plane up to the light to examine it’s silhouette. He said the word emotionlessly, as if Martin had asked him an insignificant question, such as if he needed to run to the grocery store. “She forbade it. Quite a while ago.”

The Surgeon’s expression spread into a touched grin. “And yet you still come.” That meant a lot to him. He hummed affectionately to himself.

Malcolm ignored him, unable to think of anything to dispel his father’s satisfaction.

Dr. Whitly tucked his happiness deep in his heart and returned on-topic. “Well, perhaps if she stopped by sometime, I could… tell her myself,” he suggested with a small shrug. He watched as Malcolm shook his head.

“She’s not going to do that,” the teenager sighed, finally looking his father in the eye again. “She’s moving on, dad. She has to. It’s what’s best for her.”

Martin’s contented smile dropped. But it dropped slowly, as if he was afraid to allow it to. “Moving on, like… seeing other people?”

Malcolm shrugged, but didn’t answer, instead asking, “What else is she supposed to do? Be alone for the rest of her life?”

Martin was quick to open his palms and shrug in mild exasperation, “That’s what _I’m--!”_

“You’re in prison, dad,” Malcolm interrupted. “You _can’t_ see other people.”

“Even if I _wasn't_ in prison, I _wouldn’t,”_ Martin nipped, still processing what his son may or may not have been alluding to; that Jessica was seeing other men --and worrying what exactly ‘seeing other men’ meant.

“She’s not sentenced for life, like you are.”

Martin shifted in his seat, rubbing his spine against the cell bars at his back to distract himself from the unsettled feeling that was spreading through his mind like a disease. “It just… rips my heart out, is all,” he muttered, absent-mindedly twisting the cuffs on his wrists. “To hear she’s seeing other people. That’s probably _why_ she’s doing it.”

Malcolm squinted, _“Does it_ rip your heart out?” His words were partially curious and partially accusatory.

Dr. Whitly rolled his head to bring a small glare to his son. “She’s my _wife.”_

“No, she _was_ your wife, and then you lost her,” Malcolm corrected loudly, pointing a finger at him. With a slightly more gentle tone, he added sadly, _“You lost her,_ dad. You lost all of us.”

Martin continued twisting his wrists in his cuffs, staring down at them like they had personally wronged him. “Wellllll,” he drawled. Just a hint of his teeth were visible beneath his curled lips. _“Evidently,”_ he piped darkly, turning to look at the teenager through the iron bars of his cell. “I didn’t lose _you.”_

Malcolm held his father’s steady, drilling gaze with a guarded and slightly disgusted one of his own. When Martin gave him a smile that was somehow both cruel and affectionate, Malcolm’s features set in a hateful glare and he shot to his feet. Martin’s expression broke as his son violently crumpled the paper airplane in his fist and stormed towards the door.

“Malcolm, come on,” Dr. Whitly whined, sitting forward and rotating to watch the boy march away. “That’s childish. Don’t leave on a bad note,” he pleaded as he also rose to his feet. Softness, guilt, and innocence returned to his tone, but it did no good. Mr. David was unlocking the door. Malcolm did not turn around. “Malcolm!” Dr. Whitly called, his mind whirling to find the right thing to say and the right way to say it. He wasn't fast enough --and perhaps there was nothing he could have said even if he had all the time in the world to formulate it.

The door opened and Malcolm stepped through it without even giving his usual nod of ‘thanks’ to the guard.

“ _MALCOLM!”_ Martin cried with an explosive anger brewing beneath his desperation. But it was too late. His son was gone. The door closed with a resounding boom.

The cell may as well have turned into an open oven with the amount of heat that radiated from within it, though the actual temperature in the room had not changed. Martin paced in a quick circle, his teeth tightly pressed together and a snarl loaded on his face as if it was ammunition. Like a viper, he shot out a kick to the door of his cage, firing off a guttural roar as he did so.

The iron rattled harshly from the force of his heel, which had been enough to bend its hinges slightly. It wasn't much damage, but it was just enough that the door was noticeably more creaky and more difficult to open from that moment onward.

Mr. David had it replaced --and reinforced-- within the week.


End file.
